


everything stays (but it still changes)

by isozyme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Everyone Has Issues, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Keith (Voltron) has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Light Bondage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 07, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 17:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16022966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isozyme/pseuds/isozyme
Summary: “You know, for months, Shiro — since Allura put you back in — the only things you’ve said to me are about fighting,” Keith says, and his voice is level, only betrayed by the way it cracks over the middle of his sentence.“I —“ Shiro says, wanting to deny it.“I’ll cross the universe to save you,” Keith says, fierce.  “And if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.  I’ll still be here.  But I’m done pretending it doesn’t fucking hurt, being treated like a tactical asset.”





	everything stays (but it still changes)

Keith’s been on edge since his stint in the hospital.  He was fuzzily affectionate while on the heavy painkillers, but now that he’s up and about he’s gotten bolty, dancing out of the way whenever Shiro gets too close.

So Shiro’s cautiously glad when he opens the door to the common room to see Keith, draped bonelessly over the couch, staring at a data pad with a little furrow between his eyebrows.  Shiro’s stomach flips with a warm, apprehensive feeling.  He wants so badly to take care of Keith.

Keith looks better; not so pale anymore.  Shiro is sure Keith isn’t supposed to be doing anything intellectually strenuous this soon after getting out of the hospital for his concussion.  Maybe he’s watching highlight reels from the new Inter-Species Ninja Warrior tournament.

Probably not — that’s Shiro’s new guilty pleasure, not Keith’s.  Sometimes he imagines Keith swinging easily through the obstacle course, lean and fast, all momentum and unfailing grip.

Keith looks up at the sound when Shiro closes the door behind him.  His face closes off when he recognizes Shiro, still warm but guarded.  Something’s wrong, but Shiro still can’t put a finger on what it is.  Whatever’s bothering Keith, Shiro’s ready to go fight it.

Shiro asked the Atlas to arrange itself in an echo of the castle.  It’s more familiar that way, and better suited for the long, seeping orbits they plan to take on patrol around Earth. With half the Garrison stationed aboard, it’s more crowded than the Castle of Lions, but Atlas has formed a cozy set of suites just for the paladins.

“Good job on those drills today,” Shiro says, trying to cheer Keith up with a compliment and going to the cooler in the paladin suite’s common room.  Hunk has stocked it with Capri-suns.  It’s silly but Shiro got used to drinking out of a pouch.  They’re all hunting for connection to the things they’ve lost.

Keith scowls.

“Really,” Shiro assures.  “I couldn’t spot a single mistake.”

Keith’s scowl deepens.  All the warmth has gone from his face, and for the first time Shiro thinks Keith might be mad at _him_.

Keith stews in silence for a moment.  When he speaks up, his voice is level, only betrayed by the way it cracks over the middle of his sentence.  “You know, for months, Shiro — since Allura put you back in — the only things you’ve said to me are about fighting.”

“I —“ Shiro says, wanting to deny it.

“Did you even notice?” Keith asks.

Shiro hadn’t meant to pull away.  It was just that, after being replaced for so long, he wanted to give Keith room.  Let him come back at his own pace.  At some point, it must have become a habit.

“I’ll cross the universe to save you,” Keith says, fierce.  “And if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.  I’ll still be here.  But I’m done pretending it doesn’t fucking hurt, being treated like a tactical asset.”

“You’re not just an asset to me,” Shiro says, spreading his palms.  He wants to tell Keith how proud he is of him, how breathlessly impressed he feels when he looks at Voltron and pictures Keith at the controls.  But Keith isn’t having it.

“Then can you talk to me like I’m a person? For _one_ minute? Tell me anything that you couldn’t just as easily say to _Griffin._ ”  He spits out the name like a curse.

Shiro grasps for something, anything.  _I want you, terribly.  I’m so sorry I died.  You’ve saved me so many times, and I keep leaving you._ He can’t get it out.  Not in this room, with the bright lights and a pouch of juice in his hand and Keith folded up into himself, tense and angry.

“Fine,” Keith says, clenching his jaw.  “I’m going to go see if Lance wants to spar.  I’ve lost muscle mass being in the hospital.”

“I’ll spar with you,” Shiro offers, meaning it as an apology.  The way Keith narrows his eyes shows that he takes as it as a challenge.  Shiro can feel his face falling.  Stupid.  He knows the right thing to say when he’s piloting the Atlas, or standing in front of cadets, but with Keith he doesn’t have a script.

Keith has already turned away, stripping off his jacket and throwing it at the couch.  He’s wearing a skin-tight black tank underneath it.  Staring at his back, Shiro can see the ugly, knotted scar left over from Keith’s trials with the Blades, interrupting the smooth slope from his neck to the dip of his shoulder.

There have been a lot of things Shiro couldn’t save Keith from.  He can’t see the red mark on Keith’s face from this angle, and he’s grateful.

***

When Shiro gets to the training deck, a couple pairs of cadets are trading throws and arm bars.  The huff of breath and thud of bodies hitting the floor forms an uneven cadence that feels familiar and soothing.

The comfort of the training area evaporates when Shiro catches sight of Keith stalking the perimeter of the room, radiating dangerous grace.  He’s barefoot, in loose sweats and the same tight tank top he was wearing earlier.  Shiro strips down to his own tank and squares up.  There’s already mats out on the floor.

“Weapons?” Shiro asks.

“Hands,” Keith replies.

“Rules?”

“Nope.”

That’s a bad idea, but Keith looks stubborn and Shiro knows how to pull his punches even in a dirty fight.  Plus, he thinks, no rules gives Keith the advantage.  Shiro’s unbeatable in the conventional, Garrison-approved style, but Keith’s time with the Blades gives him a ruthless edge.  Maybe Keith needs that right now.

They circle each other, silent and intense, looking for an opening.

Shiro breaks first, lunging forward and sweeping upward with a metal fist.  Keith eels around it easily and gets in close.  Shiro’s reach advantage has narrowed since Keith’s growth spurt, but Keith still likes to fight in knees-and-elbows range.

He can feel Keith’s breath and his own heartbeat.  Shiro trades a punch in the chest for a chance to get a grip on one of Keith’s wrists.  Keith grunts in annoyance and swings an elbow at Shiro’s head, forcing Shiro to drop him and dodge out of the way.

_God, he’s fast._

They trade blow-for-blow, equally matched until Shiro overcommits and Keith feints.  Keith twists and uses his hip as a fulcrum to flip Shiro down to the mat on his ass.

Then it’s an ugly grapple.  Shiro has the advantage of one arm being highly mobile, and he finds he’s having to use it more and more.  The adrenaline-laced joy of an even fight seeps into him, and this is why he wanted to spar.  All he has to be aware of is Keith’s body.  Fighting is the simplest language.

Shiro gets an arm around Keith’s throat, but Keith still has one hand free and he hooks his fingers around Shiro’s jaw, dragging upwards until Shiro gasps and lets him go.

Keith gets more creative with his pins, trying to control Shiro’s metal arm.  He gets it immobilized under the small of Shiro’s back and forces Shiro’s other wrist to the ground, but Shiro has an escape for this — he fires a little extra thrust into the arm and uses it as leverage to roll himself on top of Keith.

He gets a knee into Keith’s chest and feels a guilty thrill.  It’s good to have Keith under his hands, his hair a black sprawl on the mat, his neck starting to glisten with sweat.

Shiro has him pinned for the space of a heaving breath, and then Keith makes an inhuman sound and throws him halfway across the room.  Shiro lands poorly, striking the mat first with his shoulder, then with his ear.  His neck makes an unpleasant crunch as the rest of him smacks into the floor.  He bounces.  Twice.

Shiro rolls to his feet, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ear, hands up and ready to block the next knee or elbow Keith throws at his face.  But Keith isn’t there.

Keith is pressed up against the far wall, chest heaving visibly even from where Shiro stands.

_Oh no_ , Shiro thinks, and jogs toward him.  The last time he’d pinned Keith like that, it had been —

_Shiro, please.  You’re my brother.  I love you._

They hadn’t talked it out.  Shiro didn’t want to.  Shiro thought _Keith_ didn’t want to.  He’d heard Hunk try to get the story of how he’d messed up his face and Keith had said shortly that he’d “had a fight getting Shiro back.”

Keith’s head lolls back against the wall.  Shiro should have told him not to spar, done calisthenics first.  It’s obvious Keith is better but he’s not well.

“You need a break,” Shiro says, once he’s close enough to touch.  Keith’s eyes look glassy, and his hands are shaking.  Shiro drops his guard entirely, reaching out to tip Keith’s face toward him.

Keith _head butts_ him, right in the mouth.  Salty blood springs from where Shiro’s teeth cut the insides his lips.  He dodges back, gathering blood with his tongue and spitting on the mat.  Keith follows, aiming a knee up into Shiro’s chin.  Shiro slams his forearm into Keith’s thigh and takes the hit on his shoulder instead.

“We should take a breather,” Shiro repeats.

“What? Afraid you’ll _hurt_ me?”

_Yes,_ Shiro thinks.  _Terrified._

Keith comes at him again, and Shiro is stuck on the defensive, afraid to hit Keith at full strength, more afraid to pin him and send Keith jolting away to get his back against a wall.  His mouth is still full of blood.  If he keeps swallowing it’ll make him sick.

In the sliver of attention he can spare from keeping Keith at bay, Shiro notices the cadets who were training earlier have stopped working out.  They’re shrinking towards the door, casting nervous glances at Keith and Shiro.

It must look like they’re kicking the shit out of each other.  It looks bad.

It  _is_  bad.

Keith swings a kick heel-first into Shiro’s side, taking advantage of the gap in Shiro’s robot arm between shoulder and elbow.  Instead of throwing up a block, Shiro leans into it and lets Keith connect.

The blow drives the breath out of him.  He goes down on his knees, then has to throw out a hand to catch himself before he pitches forward onto his face.  “I yield,” he pants.  “I yield, good match.”

Looking up through his bangs he sees Keith stutter to a stop.

“No!” Keith yells at him, pushing on his shoulders with open palms.  “You let me win!  It’s no good if you let me!”

Shiro shuts his eyes.  His mouth hurts, tender everywhere he prods with his tongue.  His side is going to be sore, and his shoulder prickles hotly with a friction burn from hitting the mat after Keith threw him.

“This isn’t good for you.  For either of us,” Shiro says.

Keith releases a sound that might be a sob and backs away.

Shiro sags, cataloguing his hurts, playing over and over again the picture of Keith cringing against the wall, unable to catch his breath, looking hunted, looking terrified.  Looking terrified _of Shiro._

When he opens his eyes and hauls himself to his feet, he’s alone in the training room.  The cadets who were sparring have fled, and Keith is gone.  

Shiro sighs, rubs a hand through his hair, and wishes the world hadn’t spent the last handful of years turning them both into weapons.

***

Post-shower, Shiro punishes himself by going to help Pidge rig up a new cloaking device for the Atlas.  The combination of terrestrial and Altean technology was giving her trouble, so here he is, holding wires still while Pidge waves a soldering iron around like a madwoman.

“You’re looking more long-suffering than usual,” Pidge says.  “Also your face looks kind of bad.”

“Keith head butted me in the mouth,” Shiro says.  At Pidge’s horrified look, he elaborates, “I deserved it.”

“Okay, you know what?  I’m not touching that emotional minefield with a ten foot pole.  I don’t want to know.  Keep the blue wire there, I’m not done with it.”

“How does this work?” Shiro asks, and immediately regrets it.  He wanted to get his mind off of Keith (god, _Keith_ , what if he’s ruined everything and Shiro never gets him back the way he had him before) but listening to Pidge say things he doesn’t understand was not a good strategy.

“It’s about bending photons,” Pidge says, swinging the soldering iron around to demonstrate.  Shiro reaches up with the _metal_ hand to re-direct the hot tip away from his skin.  “Like a fiber optic cable — you know about fiber optics, right?”

“Yeah,” Shiro lies.  Pidge squints at him.  “No, not really,” Shiro admits, feeling his shoulders droop.

“The tricky part is doing it without the cable, so it doesn’t matter, really.”

“Just tell me where to hold this,” Shiro says with a sigh.

He lets Pidge boss him around for a while, trying not to think about Keith and doing a bad job of it.

“Did Keith ever tell you how he got that scar?” Shiro asks.  Maybe Keith talked to people about it.  That would make it easier for Shiro, if he knew it hadn’t been bottled up for the entire fight over Earth.

“Keith has a lot of scars,” Pidge says.  “He doesn’t tell me the sob story of each one.  We get enough of that from Lance.”

“The one on his face,” Shiro says quietly.

“Oh,” Pidge says, and then she’s silent for a moment.

“The one from getting the clone back,” Shiro says.  Pidge knows what he’s talking about, but Shiro specifies anyway.

“We’ve guessed some stuff,” Pidge says slowly.  “It’s pretty obvious he didn’t just bonk you on the head and stuff you in the black lion.  We thought maybe Lotor, but…the timing doesn’t quite line up, and Lotor fights with a blade, not something that would burn.”

“That’s — pretty right,” Shiro says.  “I don’t know how to talk to him about it.”

“You haven’t said anything?” Pidge yelps.  “Seriously?”

“I can’t bring it up if it’ll hurt him.  He needs distance, and I can give that to him.”

“You could ask _Keith_  what he thinks is best,” Pidge suggests.

“No,” Shiro says, feeling miserable, “it’s my responsibility to make sure he’s safe.  Even if it’s from me.”

“I get why he tried to knock all your teeth out,” Pidge mutters under her breath.

“I don’t think —“

Pidge smacks Shiro’s hand where he accidentally jerked it away, causing her to drop a bead of solder onto the circuit board instead of the connection she was aiming for.  She hisses through her teeth and pushes Shiro to the side, doing a complicated and hurried rescue mission.  Shiro doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he folds them in his lap and stares at the floor.

“Look, Shiro,” Pidge says, when everything is stabilized again.  “The thing I hate most in the world is when someone tells me what I want instead of listening to me.  You don’t actually know more about Keith than he knows about himself.”

Shiro must look lost, because Pidge looks at him with a little more pity and nudges him toward the door.  “Go away, sausage-fingers.  I’ve got the rest of this.”

***

Pidge may be right, but Shiro isn’t going to talk to Keith this soon after their disaster on the training deck.  Instead he paces around the castle, trying to find somewhere he’ll be useful.  He bothers Iverson, and Coran, and Allura.  They all gently tell him to go away.

Allura, at least, finds him some concealer for the bruise on his face, and gives him a crash-course in makeup.  “Yellow-green counteracts purpling,” she says, handing him a little pot of color.  “Then put this on top,” she continues, showing him a bottle of beige…paint?  He can already tell he’s not going to be good at this.  Shiro gingerly gathers up what she gives him, and she sweeps off to sort out some quintessence-laced emergency.

That avenue exhausted, Shiro goes to his little office among the officer’s quarters and shuts himself in, then drops to the floor to do pushups.  They’ll be headed to space soon, and Shiro wants to be sharp, even if he’s not sure what capacity he’ll be fighting in.  Piloting the Atlas isn’t like piloting a lion.  The lions linked to their pilots in a blaze of biofeedback — he’d felt every hit in his own flesh, and strained for speed with his own muscles.  

Fighting in a lion was an exhausting, full-body experience.  Fighting in Voltron was five-fold more.  In contrast, the Atlas was a deep, soft thrum in his head, a symphony of pieces slotting together and asking him what he wanted it to do.  He’d asked Allura about how piloting the Castle compared to Blue.  She said the castle was like an overwhelming crescendo in her heart, and the lions were like dragging the world up a mountain with her teeth.  Shiro feels the same way about the difference between Atlas and Black.

Doing pushups is distracting.  He’s still getting used to the Altean prosthetic, so it takes some concentration to balance the force across both of his arms.  Shiro sinks into the strain of his body, counting to one hundred and forty four.  He likes that number — a dozen squared, a nice amount with tidy corners.

When the pushups are done, Shiro switches to sit-ups.

Even after his full routine, the day still isn’t over.  Shiro resigns himself to the endless toil of bureaucracy waiting for him at his desk.  There’s a new batch of monthly reports from all the outposts in the Sol-One sector.  Shiro starts reading through them.

The reports are mostly about the weather: solar flares, heavy rainfall, a meteor shower that didn’t do any damage but that the report author put it in anyway because it was pretty, something described as “acid wind” that Shiro’s glad to be unfamiliar with, and on and on.  Not a lot of firefights.

The security system of a university a couple light years away was hacked, but it wasn’t Galra insurgents, just an enterprising group of students trying to get ahold of test materials before the exam date.  A herd of space-cows escaped their field and blocked a major thoroughfare until the police came and shooed them away.  The mayor of a small collection of asteroids Shiro’s never heard of has declared a settlement-wide Voltron Day.  Shiro makes a note to calculate when that will fall on the Earth calendar and send a card.

Shiro spends the rest of the evening plugging in the scarce sightings of Galra ships into Pidge’s Galra-finder database, so when he goes to bed he dreams mostly of spreadsheets, and not of Keith.

***

The next morning Shiro’s schedule begins with a before-breakfast meeting about recruitment and admissions requirements.  Voltron’s return has spurred a wave of new would-be cadets, but it’s tricky when half the hopeful teens are aliens and have wildly different physical capabilities.  Allura once deadlifted a car and Iverson had to explain why that couldn’t be used as a screening method.

Shiro puts on a clean uniform, shaves gingerly, and then inexpertly applies Allura’s bruise-covering kit. 

The recruitment meeting goes fine, and if anyone notices that Shiro’s chin is yellow they don’t mention it.  Later on, Shiro has a lunch appointment with Sam Holt, who proudly presents him with a plate of mushy peas.  The peas are very grey-green and very soft.

“Our favorite from the Kerberos mission!” Sam says happily.

Shiro doesn’t have the heart to tell him that peas don’t feature among his best space-faring memories.  He chews politely through the peas and wishes desperately for pastrami on rye.

Throughout the entire day, Keith is conspicuously absent.

Shiro is inclined to let Keith keep to himself, but this whole disaster started because he left things alone for too long, so he puts on his big boy shorts and goes hunting.

Keith’s in the map room, surrounded by the twinkle of holographic stars.

“Hey,” Shiro says.

Keith nods at him, lifting a hand to skim across a galaxy.  He zooms in on a solar system held by Galra pirates.  When he looks at Shiro he winces.  Shiro supposes he looks a little off-putting with the bruise around the corner of his mouth blooming ghoulishly under Allura’s makeup.

“Sorry I messed up your face,” Keith says.

Shiro laughs and then says, artless,  “Sorry I messed up yours.”

Keith looks confused — Shiro didn’t land any face hits while they sparred — and then realization dawns and his eyes widen.  The scar is purple in the low light; he looks like his mother.  Keith lets out a slightly shaky breath and covers his eyes with his hand.

“God, your jokes are so terrible,” Keith whispers into his palm.

“Sorry,” Shiro says.  He hates what he has to say next.  It’s ugly and he doesn’t like the version of himself who could hurt Keith.  He wants to bury that self under a thousand times he’s said the right things, been the right amount of supportive, kept the perfect balance between a mentor and a friend.  “I don’t — don’t know if you want to talk about the cloning facility fight.  I know you were scared of me.  Yesterday.”

“I’m not scared!” Keith protests.  Then he grimaces and revises, “I don’t mean to be.”  Keith’s honesty is like a sword with a knife for a hilt.  He’s presenting Shiro with only his profile, making himself a narrow target.

“Keith,” Shiro says, low, pouring all of his feeling into it.  Keith looks up sharply at him, holding his gaze steady through veiled lashes, and Shiro tries not to read longing into Keith’s face.  It’s baldly selfish to search for that, especially now, during a conversation this raw.  “I never want to hurt you again,” he finishes softly.

“It wasn’t you!  I know it wasn’t you.”

“It looked like me.”

Keith takes a big shaky breath.  “Yeah.”

“I didn’t realize you felt like I was pulling away.  I thought that when you didn’t bring it up maybe you didn’t want to remember.”

Keith barks a laugh that surprises Shiro.  “Fat chance of that.  My nightmares have it covered, thanks.”  Then Keith makes a face, and Shiro thinks he may have let on more than he wanted to.

Shiro reaches out to put a hand on Keith’s shoulder, hyperaware of Keith’s body language, watching for a flinch that thankfully doesn’t come.

“Do you?” Keith asks.

“Do I what?”

“Remember,” Keith says, his voice cracked and breathy.

Shiro nods.  Keith’s face crumples.  He looks wrecked for a moment, then slides away, out from under Shiro’s hand.

Keith is quiet, and Shiro can’t see his face.  He fiddles with the map, making the stars slide dizzily across the room.  Shiro stands next to him and _aches_.  He wants to tell Keith he loves him, but it’ll tear him apart because Keith doesn’t love him like _that_.  Shiro can be a brother to Keith if that’s what Keith wants, but he can’t say the words out loud.  He’s not strong enough.

Keith swallows, throat clicking.

“Do you remember falling?”

“We fell?” Shiro asks.

Keith nods a little.  “That’s what I dream about the most.”

Shiro woke up with striped bruises around his wrist, almost completely faded after being in the pod.  It had been a minor entry in a long catalogue of hurts.  Shiro hadn’t paid it much mind.

“I dream that you put the bayard through my heart,” Shiro says.  Keith makes a wounded sound.

Shiro dreams about more than that: about holding Keith down and cutting his throat, helpless under the witch’s control.  Sometimes he dreams about sex, wet and heavy and confusing.  Sometimes all three blend together and Shiro wakes up to retch and shake.

Now they’re even — they both know about the dreams.  Shiro can feel tears pressing at the back of his eyes and a threatening thickness in the back of his throat.  A few steps away Keith’s chest is rising and falling in agonizingly measured breaths.  Breathing exercises, invisible to anyone who’d spent less time than Shiro watching Keith breathe.  Shiro wonders where Keith learned them, then remembers the questionnaire he was given during his own hospital stay, and the gentle encouragement to make an appointment after he was discharged.  Maybe Keith received the same treatment and followed up.  Met with someone.  Learned coping strategies.

“That got dark,” Shiro says dryly, shattering the moment.

Keith looks up at him and smiles, a little wicked.  “Well, you cut up my face and tried not to talk about it for eight weeks.”

Shiro cracks a smile, then remembers _his_ face and reaches up to touch it gingerly.  Powdery concealer comes off on his fingers.  Keith snorts at him.  “Want me to wash that off and put some salve on you?”

Shiro’s desire to let Keith put his hands on him is immediate and overflowing, so he says yes.

***

Maybe, Shiro thinks, with Keith’s face less than a foot from his, eyebrows drawn together in concentration over cleaning up Shiro’s spectacular split lip, Keith has more than a brotherly interest in him.  Perhaps he’d meant brother in the ancient way, like shieldbrothers who shared cloaks the nights before the battlefield.  Shiro rolls his eyes at himself.  This kind of wishful thinking is embarrassing; he can control himself better than this.

“Okay, your turn,” Shiro says, once he’s let Keith fuss over him for longer than is really necessary.  He scoops the tub of ointment out of Keith’s hands.  “I know you’re banged up too.”

Keith pulls off his boot and rolls up his pant leg to point out a scrape on his ankle, so Shiro sits down on the ground with Keith’s foot in his lap.  He holds Keith still with a hand wrapped around his calf, making sure Keith can’t accidentally kick him in the nose.  Keith feels good under Shiro’s hands, firm and smooth, with his leg hair going every-which-way after being under a skin-tight body suit for so long.

Shiro could ask Keith what _I love you_ meant.  Pidge told him to ask what Keith wants, but Pidge doesn’t have a stake in this problem.  Selfishly, Shiro isn’t looking forward to being rejected.  He’s not used to rejection; the last time someone else’s decision had the potential to sting this badly was when his disease almost kept him from the Kerberos mission.  Shiro’s always been the Garrison’s golden boy — any time he was worried he might not be good enough he tried harder until the worry became unfounded.

Shiro already feels like he’s all half-bandaged bleeding edges, and suspects that Keith does too.  He’s done enough scraping out his feelings for one day.  Maybe next time.

They switch back and forth, presenting minor cuts and bumps, and Shiro relaxes into the pleasure of taking care of someone else, and being cared for in turn.

“What’s this one from?” Shiro asks, when Keith lifts the side of his shirt and reveals a round bruise on his ribs.

“Pidge elbowed me _really hard_ ,” Keith whines.  “Just because I called her Monsters and Mana character dumb.”

“Monsters and Mana is serious team-building business.  If you played, you’d see,” Shiro says sagely.  He rubs salve into the bruise and Keith’s skin jumps under his fingers, ticklish.

“Okay, okay,” Keith says when Shiro’s done, still a little shivery.  “You have any more sore spots?”

“Sam made me eat mushy peas for lunch,” Shiro says, making a hang-dog face.

“Oh no, you poor baby,” Keith laughs.  “I can’t fix that one for you.”

***

A few days later Shiro comes back from a meeting to find Hunk, Pidge and Lance in a pile on the couch in the common room.  Lance is curled up around a gallon of ice cream, and Hunk is patting his back while making can-you-believe-this eyebrows at Pidge where Lance can’t see.

“— and I don’t even know if I’ll be good at it, I haven’t kissed a girl before!  And Allura has definitely kissed at least Lotor, so I have competition!  You guys haven’t kissed Allura, right?”

Hunk’s eyebrows go up further.

Pidge makes what Shiro thinks might be an attempt at a seductive face.  “Oh yeah, _loads_ of times.  She loves it when I —“  Pidge notices Shiro in the doorway and stops abruptly.

“Hi Shiro!” she says brightly, and the three of them snap to professional attention.

Shiro feels sad that his presence means everyone stops having fun.  Keith was right — he’s been treating everyone like a tactical asset, and now they’re treating him like an officer.  Maybe he’d been using Voltron as a crutch.  Connecting with the team as equals is harder when they don’t spend hours with their hearts pounding in sync.

With an internal sigh, Shiro decides to toss professionalism out the window for a little while.  “If you want someone to judge your kissing, Lance, you can always kiss me.  As your leader, I promise to be impartial.”

Lance looks like he’s going to choke on his ice cream.  Hunk and Pidge slap at him and roll back and forth on the couch in laughter.

In between gasps, Pidge says, “No, no, kiss Hunk, he’s a connoisseur of all fine things on this earth.  A chef’s tongue is his most valuable possession.”

“Gross, Pidge,” Shiro scolds, trying not to think about it.

Hunk shoves Pidge ineffectually.  “Pidge can build a kissing test robot.  That’s the most quantitative method, you know.”

Pidge leans in toward Lance, making a kissy face while Hunk supplies beeping noises.  In a robot voice Pidge intones, “I, the ultimate kissing machine, declare that Lance has a make out score of: five point one three three three three three repeating.  Would you like to test again?”

Lance looks mortified, but also more relaxed as he puts a hand up to escape Pidge’s quantitative methods.

Shiro takes a few more steps into the room and shoves his hands in his pockets, smiling.  “It’s okay, Lance.  When I kissed Adam for the first time I tried to be smooth and slip him some tongue.  He called me Sloppy Shiro for an entire month after we started dating.”

Talking about Adam is still hard, but if Shiro can’t talk to the paladins about it, then he can’t talk to anyone.  He wanted to come home and have coffee with Adam, tell him that all the old hurts had healed over, that he had missed him like a friend.

“Ew,” Lance says, and pulls a face.

Shiro catches himself reciting the garrison’s sexual harassment guidelines to himself. This is technically very inappropriate.  But nobody looks as uncomfortable as they did when he first walked in, and when Lance stops making his Mr. Yuck impression, he’s smiling.

“Lighten up.  You’ll be fine,” Shiro tells Lance, and slaps him encouragingly on the back before heading into his own room.

As the door closes he hears Hunk say, “Guys — Shiro is _lame_.  So lame!  How did he hide it this whole time?”

Shiro resolves to be more human in front of the team, but as he sits down to more monthly reports, he has a dark realization.  One of them — maybe all of them — is going to inform Keith that Shiro is a bad kisser, which isn’t true.  Not anymore!  Shiro’s had _practice._ A pretty respectable amount of practice.  He’s very confident in his kissing abilities, and yet…he still kind of wishes that Pidge would build that robot.  Just to double check.  Shiro likes to be thorough with things.  It’s good to be sure.

***

The next time Shiro sees Keith it’s because Keith seeks him out.  Shiro’s found a quiet little lounge Atlas made for the garrison scientists and is using it to sneak in a little TV time where nobody will find him.  The Westminster Dog Show is playing this week, and someone twisted the American Kennel Club’s arm almost clean off to get them to expand the definition of “dog” to include a wide range of mid-size alien pets.  The face of the judge when confronted with the sweet warty face of a Balmeran puppy is _priceless_.

Keith comes up behind him and leans his forearms on the back of Shiro’s couch.

“Wow, you _are_ turning into an old man,” Keith says, catching the dog show on Shiro’s data pad.

“Hi Keith,” Shiro says.  “How are you doing?”  He realizes after he’s said it that he used leader-voice, and sighs.  “I just really like dogs,” he admits.

“Nerd,” Keith says, and vaults over the back of the couch to sit beside Shiro.

“Really though,” Shiro says, “how are you?”  Keith looks tired as fuck.  He’s wearing a beat up red hoodie instead of his usual beat up red jacket, and there’s dark smudges under his eyes.

“Pidge made me do the invisible maze again,” Kieth says. He gives Shiro a weighing look and then adds, “also I’ve been sleeping like shit.”

Shiro tips his head back and hums in agreement.  He gets that.  The right, responsible thing to do is to urge Keith to take better care of himself, turn it in early, maybe skip some practice sessions to give himself time to heal up properly.  But Keith would hate it, and Shiro just doesn’t feel like being responsible right now.

   Instead he lets his eyes drift closed  while Keith steals his data pad.  The sound of the dog show comes back on, and Shiro smiles.  _Who’s the nerd now?_

Shiro lets himself drift, and finds himself thinking about Keith when he was back in school, and how different Keith had been from Shiro as a student.  Shiro had spent his childhood learning what would make his teachers happiest and then doing that.  The only time he’d let loose was when he was out of sight, jumping off ledges into the old flooded quarry, or speeding along back roads on his rusty-ass hover bike.

Without thinking about it too much, Shiro says, “Sometimes I remember someone from my childhood and I wonder if they survived the Galra, and I realize I just don’t know.”

Keith mutes the video feed.  He’s quiet, and Shiro thinks maybe he should have kept that thought to himself.  Then Keith puts a hand around the back of his neck and pulls Shiro closer.  “I’m here,” he says roughly, like that’s all he can give and he’ll give all of it, and Shiro loves him, this wild, generous, loyal creature he found in the desert.

Keith surprises him by tipping halfway into Shiro’s lap, curling bonelessly into him.  “You’re warm,” Keith says, sticking his cold nose under Shiro’s chin.

“You’re heavy,” Shiro teases.

“I told you, m’tired,” Keith says into his shirt.

Shiro waits for Keith to pull away, but he doesn’t, and it becomes clear Keith’s intention is to fall asleep on Shiro.  Shiro’s okay with that.  He uses the extra reach of his prosthetic arm to snag the data pad from where it’s discarded on the other side of the couch, and lets it play on mute.

Asleep, Keith looks less pinched, smoother all over.  His cheek is squashed against Shiro’s chest; if Shiro tips his head forward, he can press his lips on the crown of Keith’s head.  Shiro stays like that and whispers silly little things into Keith’s hair: _your hands are beautiful, and your face, and the way you move,_ and then less silly things: _I’ll keep you any way you’ll have me,_ _I’d let you cut me open before I leave a mark on you again._

***

Before the Atlas lifts off to help patrol the outer solar system, Shiro is expected to help with recruitment for the Garrison and the Voltron Alliance.  Shiro has never been more desperate to get into space.

It’s not that Shiro doesn’t like recruiting anymore.  He’s good at putting people at ease and making them believe in themselves.  But he’s used to recruiting for science and exploration, not war.  The last time Shiro did this he hadn’t seen death before.  Now death plays behind his eyelids every night.

The awe and hero-worship have only gotten more intense since Shiro became a genuine world-saving figure, no matter how many times he insists that their victory was won by the collective effort and sacrifice of hundreds.

Shiro stands next to the simulator, offering a hand to each hopeful student as they step out into the parking lot.  He asks each of them how they did, and smiles, and tells him he’s proud of them. There are just so _many_ of them, and they’re all so young.

Keith walks up, sleek in a Blades bodysuit.  Shiro’s mouth goes dry, and the recruit he’s talking to drops her complimentary pen.  “Kolivan wants to talk to you,” Keith says.

Shiro makes quick apologies and gets up to follow Keith, trying to hide his relief.

Keith leads him to the Black Lion, which is parked beside the publicity tent as an ostentatious symbol of Voltron’s protection.  When they reach the cockpit Keith hops up to sit on the front control panel and stares meaningfully at Shiro until he sits down in the pilot seat.

Black grumbles around him, not entirely pleased at this pilot switch.  Shiro keeps his hands off the joysticks and Black settles into a friendlier presence, welcoming Shiro back as a passenger.  Shiro misses his bond with Black, but after his year in the lion’s consciousness they’re understandably a little sick of each other.

“What does Kolivan need?” Shiro asks.

“Nothing,” Keith says.  “He’s off-planet somewhere.  You looked like you were drowning.”

Shiro smiles sheepishly.  “I was a bit.”

“They shouldn’t drag you through that stuff when they don’t really need you.  Don’t go back,” Keith warns.  “Not unless you plan to put _me_ in the simulator.  I bet I could beat level five now.”

“The point is not to demoralize the teenagers,” Shiro chastises, but he’s not mad.  It would be fun to watch the paladins destroy all the Garrison’s old sim records.

Keith huffs an exaggerated sigh.

“So what do I owe you for saving me again?” Shiro asks, leaning back and grinning at Keith.

“I’ll put it on your tab.”

“That tab’s getting pretty steep,” Shiro says.  “I’m not sure how I’ll pay you back.”

Keith kicks his feet.  Black appears to be used to Keith sprawling all over its controls, because nothing beeps in alarm even when Keith drums his feet against a panel of buttons.  “Get into less trouble then.”  He’s being casual, but there’s genuine hurt showing underneath.

“I’m sorry, Keith,” Shiro says, looking up at him.  “I’ve left you too many times.  I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Keith says, a little sharp.

“I’d promise you my whole life if I could,” Shiro says, and as it leaves his mouth he thinks that might have been too much, too honest.  “You deserve it.  Whatever you want.”

Keith stares into Shiro’s face, like he’s trying to bore into Shiro’s head to see if he means it.  Then he hops down from the dashboard.  “Okay then.  Hold still.”

Keith’s wearing the considering, stubborn face he makes when he’s about to dive into a dangerous situation sword-first.  But there isn’t any battle, just yellow light streaming in from the warm day outside and the soft violet glow of the cockpit lingering in the shadows.

Keith squinches his eyes shut at the last minute, like he’s finally scared, and then reaches out blindly.  His hand finds Shiro’s jawline, sliding along it until the pad of his thumb reaches Shiro’s lower lip.   Shiro searches for a way he could be misinterpreting this and comes up empty.

Shiro turns his head and kisses Keith’s palm.  Keith’s eyes snap back open.

Then he crowds into Shiro’s lap, his knees straddling Shiro’s hips, and his hands slide onto Shiro’s shoulders.  Shiro leans forward into a kiss that’s too fast, and their noses bump.  Keith looks briefly mortified until Shiro reaches up to cup his chin, gentling him and guiding him into something soft and good.

Shiro sighs when he finally gets his fingers into Keith’s hair.  It’s silky and warm and he’s wanted to tousle it for _so long_.  That inspires Keith to get his hands in _Shiro’s_ hair, which is incredible.

Keith presses them chest-to-chest, like he wants to push himself closer until they’re sharing the same skin.  Shiro runs his nails up Keith’s sides, enjoying the ridged texture of his bodysuit and the way it makes Keith’s breath stutter against his mouth.

“This is good.  Is this good?” Shiro pants, his brain not providing anything more sophisticated than three word sentences.

Keith kisses him again.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I think it’s good.”

“You’re amazing,” Shiro says.  Keith winds his arms around Shiro’s neck, laying kisses across Shiro’s cheek and jawline while Shiro traces up the line of his spine.

Some time later, Shiro’s phone rings.  He extracts a hand and fumbles the phone out of his pocket before the call goes to voicemail.  It’s Iverson, probably wondering where his top recruiter is.  

Keith swipes the phone from his hand.  “Nope.  I’m not done.” 

***

When they’re given a date for the Atlas’s launch back into deep space, Allura proposes a party.  Lance wants the party to be at a club, Hunk wants a restaurant, Pidge wants to go somewhere called “Barcade,” Shiro wants a bonfire, and Keith doesn’t care, as long as there’s alcohol options other than Nunvil.

Shiro gets his way via treachery — he tells Coran about s’mores, and Coran’s face lights up at the chance to learn about a new Earth custom.

“Ah, we had outdoor flame celebrations on Altea!  Although you had to be very careful, because the burning wood from most Altean trees would release a noxious hallucinogenic gas.”

“That’s…not really a problem here,” Shiro says.

“Too bad,” Coran says.  “One time I became convinced I was an enormous Hairy Fillibustrian.  _Hilarious!_ ”

The desert at night is cool and indigo.  Allura’s dragged out plenty of firewood, beer, and lumpy blankets.  Before sunset, Keith had helped her set up the bonfire.  Shiro, hauling over a case of beer, stopped to watch Keith crouch down and pile up newspaper and brush.  He remembers Keith doing the same thing while Shiro lay against a boulder, helpless and wounded on a foreign planet.  This time, he spent more time appreciating Keith’s ass.

Now, Keith leans against his shoulder, drinking beer and staring up at the stars.  Lance brought out his entire family; his cousins are having a blast teaching a rapt audience of Allura and Coran marshmallow toasting techniques.

A few feet away, Matt and Pidge egg each other on over which piece of trash to experimentally immolate next.  Matt throws in a plastic shot glass of some Galra spirit Krolia brought with her and half the fire goes roaring up violent and purple.

On the other side of the bonfire, Krolia stands up and puts her hands on her hips.  Pidge and Matt yell in fear and trip over their feet, running off before she can catch them.

The innards of the fire burn white-hot, cracking and popping.  Keith laughs comfortably.  “Mom’s gonna kill them,” he says, as Pidge tries to hide behind Hunk.  “That’s her _good_ grog.”

Shiro’s happy; he’s surrounded by friends and food, with a challenge on the horizon and Keith as a long stripe of warmth up his side.  He wonders if he can get Keith into his lap without anyone else noticing.  Krolia looks at them, her eyes flashing yellow in the firelight, and Shiro thinks better of it, flopping down on his back instead, ostensibly to look at the stars.  Keith follows, resting his head on Shiro’s bicep.

Shiro shifts Keith a little farther up onto his shoulder and splays hand over his chest.  “I want the Atlas to feel like this,” he says.

“Kind of drunk?” Keith asks.

“No,” Shiro says.  “Like — warm.”

“You’re a sap,” Keith says, but he brings up a hand to cover Shiro’s.  Shiro thrills a little and wraps his fingers around Keith’s.  They’ve stolen a few soft moments since kissing in the Black Lion; Shiro curls his hand around the back of Keith’s neck instead of touching his shoulder, and Keith leans his whole body against Shiro when he gets bored standing in the back of meetings, but they haven’t had much private time, and Shiro wants more.

A current of warmth that has nothing to do with the nearby fire swirls through Shiro, and he makes a contemplative noise.  “What do you think about going back to the Paladin quarters?” he asks.

“Yeah, okay,” Keith says, and Shiro can feel the rumble of it under his fingertips.

***

They go to Shiro’s room, because it’s a bit bigger.  He can’t help that the Atlas likes him best.  Once the door shuts, Shiro stares at Keith and feels shy.  For all he’d like to roll Keith onto the bed and put his mouth all over him, he’s not sure how to start.

Keith helps by stepping in close and tugging on the hem of Shiro’s shirt.  “C’mon, off, off.”

Shiro obeys and has to suppress a laugh when Keith eyes him up and down like he’s ready to _climb him_.  Then Keith starts on his own shirt and Shiro slides his hands in to help.

Keith backs him into the door and an open-mouthed kiss, all breath and teeth.  Shiro groans and ghosts his fingers up and down Keith’s back, resisting the urge to grab Keith’s hips and roll him up onto his thigh.  Instead he skims his hands over Keith, taking care not to grab or pull, keeping his own desire on the back burner to focus on making Keith comfortable and safe.

“Shiro,” Keith says seriously, breaking the kiss to stare firmly into Shiro’s eyes.  “Stop fussing.  It’s not an exam; you can have fun.”

There’s nothing in Shiro that can deny Keith, so he pushes himself away from the door and scoops Keith up with one hand under his ass and one hand hooked around his knee.  Keith clings to him and sets to work on a biting kiss on the side of Shiro’s neck.  Shiro carries Keith the few steps to the bed (his room is bigger, but not _large_ by any stretch) and dumps him onto it, following on hands and knees.

Keith smells like woodsmoke and rum.  Shiro presses him down into the crisply made sheets, holding him still with one hand tangled in his hair.  He grinds his hips down, relishing the full-body shiver that goes up Keith at the motion, how Keith goes loose and pliant under him, and kisses him again.

Except, something’s wrong.  Keith doesn’t kiss back.

Shiro stops cold.

Keith stares up at him with glassy eyes for a few thudding heartbeats, and then he scrambles desperately away.

Shiro shuts his eyes and fists his hands in the sheets, willing himself not to cry in frustration and loss.  This isn’t _fair_.  They were so close.

When Shiro’s composed himself, Keith’s tucked himself into the corner of the room, on the floor between the wardrobe and Shiro’s tiny desk.  “Sorry,” he says shakily.

“Not your fault,” Shiro says.  He starts to rise, to go to Keith and comfort him, but Keith flinches away, his knees coming up and his eyes wide.

“Maybe…I need some space for a minute,” Keith says, staring at the ground.  Shiro sits down on the edge of the bed and tries to look smaller, less threatening.  He wants to find what’s doing this to Keith and smash it, but he can’t.  Even if he destroys Haggar and wipes every trace of Zarkon’s empire off the face of the universe, it won’t make this go away for Kieth.  It feels awful.

“Can you tell me?” Shiro asks gently.  Keith nods carefully.

“It’s like I’m back there,” Keith says.  “You’re not _you_ and I’m losing, I can’t win, I’m trapped, and I’m going to die.”

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro says, brimming with sympathy and guilt.  “I’m so sorry.  I understand if it’s hard, around me, you don’t have to —”

“Stop it!  I _trust_ you,” Keith says sharply.  “With my life, Shiro.  I just — usually it’s okay that you’re stronger than me.  Kind of hot, even.  Until it’s not okay.”

“You’re strong, Keith,” Shiro says.  Keith’s stronger than him in so many ways.

“Could I beat you sparring?  In an all-out match?”

Shiro shakes his head, heart sinking.  “I don’t know.”

“Yeah.”

Keith leans his head back for a moment, clearly gathering himself.  Shiro plants his elbows on this knees, then his face in his hands, and gives Keith however much time he needs.

Eventually, he hears Keith shift and stand.

“Do you want to try again?” Keith asks, shaking out his limbs like he’s just rolled out of the cockpit from a particularly white-knuckle dogfight.

“No,” Shiro says.

Keith frowns at him, mulish.  “I can do this.  I want to be able to do this.”

“I know,” Shiro says, holding out a hand and drawing Keith gently back onto the bed.  “But not tonight.  If I — again — I can’t bear that, Keith.”

Keith straddles Shiro’s lap, pressing kisses to his lips, pushing, always pushing.  Shiro catches his face in both hands, thumb accidentally brushing the scar he left there.  Keith stills a little, and Shiro kisses him feather-light on the forehead.  “Sleep here with me?” Shiro asks, hopeful.

“That sounds alright,” Keith says, and proceeds to steal all of Shiro’s blankets.

***

They try again, in snatches of free time stolen between launch preparations and strategy meetings.

But every time it goes sideways before they get farther than heavy petting.  Keith gets annoyed that Shiro is being to tentative, or Shiro traps Keith too much and he has to fight back a panic attack, or someone interrupts with urgent business.

When Allura decides to “test the alarms” just as they find a tenuous balance, Shiro actually loses his temper.  He’s not proud of it, but _honestly_ , none of the paladins have fallen for the “Zarkon is invading” trick since _Arus_.  Also, Zarkon is _dead_.

Once they’re back in private, Keith presses his face into Shiro’s chest and laughs.  “You sure taught Allura a lesson about surprise drills,” he says.

Shiro flicks him in the ear.  Keith snaps his teeth at Shiro’s finger, then kisses him.

Shiro rubs his hands up and down Keith’s arms, enjoying the feel of whipcord muscles under his jacket.  “Have you been working out?” he asks, raising his eyebrows and winking.

Keith shoots him a crooked smile.  “A little.”

“Mmmm, nice,” Shiro says, roving over Keith’s torso to map the changes in his muscles.

“I was thinking,” Keith says, a little breathless, “that maybe we could try sparring again.”  Shiro takes his hands away, chilly apprehension running down his spine.

Keith frowns at Shiro’s expression and crosses his arms across his chest, the picture of stubbornness.  “Don’t be like that.  I don’t want to be dancing around a freak-out every time we do this.  If I beat you, it goes away.”

If Shiro’s honest, he’s just as tired of spending half his time around Keith worrying about triggering a flight response.  Sparring seems like a risky idea, but if it’s a solution then maybe he’s ready to try.  And Keith’s obviously been training for a while.

At Shiro’s reluctant nod, Keith grins and starts stripping off his uniform to get into gym clothes.  Shiro watches in appreciation until Keith notices and snaps at him to go to his _own_ room to change.

***

Keith shows up on the training deck in yoga pants, a loose sweatshirt, and his hair up in a half-ponytail.  Shiro unbends himself from stretching on the mat and rolls his neck from side to side, trying to shake out his nerves.

Keith calls up the podium in the middle of the training gym and flips through weapons options.  “I was thinking swords,” he says, and Shiro hides a shudder.

The practice swords are orange holographic beams which deliver an unpleasant zap on contact but are otherwise harmless.  Keith tosses Shiro a blade and he catches it, flipping it from flesh hand to metal hand and back, trying to decide which is more comfortable.  Keith holds his own sword out in front of him, lethal and motionless.

They start out measured and deliberate, working through a set of classical forms, warming up their muscles.  Shiro finally settles into the rhythm of strikes and parries.  Keith notices, and the pace quickens.

Soon the force of their blows is vibrating unpleasantly up Shiro’s arm, and locks of hair are falling out of Keith’s ponytail.

They hammer each other from a distance for a while, closing in bright crashes and then dancing away, using the momentum of their bodies to lend strength to each strike.

Keith swings for Shiro’s legs, forcing him to leap out of the way, straight into a shoulder-check.  Shiro goes rolling across the floor, sword buzzing angrily every time it touches the ground.

Before he can get up, Keith’s on him, aiming a downward thrust at Shiro’s chest that he just manages to knock to the side.  Keith’s breath goes out in a tiny _oof_ as the sword digs into the floor instead of Shiro.

Shiro dives away while Keith frees his practice blade.  Keith swings high, the electricity of his blade frizzling along Shiro’s scalp as he ducks.  Then Shiro kicks him in the stomach to buy himself breathing room.

This time when they clash again, Keith locks their blades.  “You’re holding back,” he grits out.

“I’m not,” Shiro protests.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Keith says, and shoves just hard enough that Shiro gives him a step back.  Keith rolls his eyes as if to say _see?_

  Shiro remembers the other, disastrous sparring session, Keith yelling _it’s no good if you let me win,_ and tosses his practice blade to the side.

Keith looks surprised until Shiro grabs Keith’s sword with his metal hand and _twists_ , almost breaking Keith’s grip, and then Keith gets it.  His smile turns wicked as he swings his blade _fast_ , and Shiro grunts at the effort of throwing his arm into it.

Now that it’s fists versus sword and they’re both in their wheelhouse.  Shiro lets himself be fancy, stretching the distance of his punches and grabs.  Keith spins his sword around in his grip and starts treating it like a Marmoran blade instead of a bayard.

It’s getting fun — Keith is a great partner, quick and vicious — until Shiro sees an opening to tackle Keith and win the fight.  He falters, and instead of taking it he gets hit across the jaw with the hilt of Keith’s sword.

The next opening Shiro’s almost certain Keith’s created on purpose, and by the third Shiro’s sure Keith is testing him.  When he doesn’t go for it, he knows he’s failed.

Keith lets loose a growl of frustration and throws his sword down.  “What part of _all out_ don’t you understand?”

“I can’t,” Shiro says, out of breath.  “I just…I can’t.”

Keith scoffs, all derision and poorly-hidden wounded pride, then kicks the practice swords toward Shiro.  “You clean up.  I’m going to go take a fucking shower.”

Shiro lets Keith go, waiting for the burning in his eyes and lungs to die down.  Then he racks the swords and starts folding up the mats.  He’s going to come up with a better solution, one that doesn’t mean he has to try to hurt Keith.  One without fighting.

***

The idea Shiro gets is less than conventional, and carries the risk of making Shiro extremely embarrassed, but it’s the best he’s got.

There’s a couple of things he’ll need along with a stretch of uninterrupted time.  Shiro tells Keith that maybe he should swing by his quarters after dinner, and Keith raises his eyebrows in pointed interest.

Shiro searches out the other paladins to ask them to run interference if anyone shows up and wants to bother them.  He finds Hunk in the hanger bay and flags him down.

“I need a favor,” Shiro says, then explains in round-about terms that he plans to be extremely, unavoidably busy for a few hours after dinner, and could the team make sure he’s not interrupted?

“If anyone asks, I’m dead,” Shiro says.

“Not funny,” Hunk scolds.

“I will be _unavailable_ ,” Shiro insists.

Hunk snorts and relents.  “Alright.  Go get laid, buddy.”

Shiro chokes and almost drops his bag.  “I — I’m not — I am your _superior_ officer, Hunk, and I think —“

Hunk gazes at him sweetly, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.  “Oh, I’m sorry, I hope you and Keith have a nice talk and some short hugs with lots of space for Jesus in between.”

“We…will,” Shiro says, face hot, absolutely defeated.

***

_ok dinner’s over,_ Keith texts.

_Come by in five minutes,_ Shiro replies, scanning his room for anything messy that he could clean up before Keith arrives.

_yes sir_

He doesn’t have anything to tidy, so Shiro reaches into his bag and pulls out the things he got — stole — borrowed — whatever — from the non-lethal section of Atlas’s armory.

They’re electromagnetic cuffs, designed to wrap around the wrists and, at the press of a button, lock immovably to anything that’s both nearby and metal.

The walls around Shiro’s bunk are metal.

With some wiggling, Shiro gets himself cuffed to the wall, half-sitting with his legs spread out in a vee across the mattress.  Immediately, he feels stupid.  This is not sexy, this is dumb, and Keith is going to laugh at him for thinking that maybe, this way, Keith could touch him without fear.

Shiro is about to deactivate the restraints with remote in his flesh hand when the keypad beeps.  Keith steps in, already grinning and starting to ask, “What’s so importa—“

He sees Shiro on the bed and his jaw drops a little.  “Oh shit,” he whispers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  Keith’s awe brushes away some of Shiro’s embarrassment, and it’s replaced with tentative arousal.

“The controls are in my hand,” Shiro says.  “The button in the middle —“

Keith interrupts him.  “I know how those work.”

When Keith takes the remote from Shiro’s hand their fingers brush and the touch sizzles up along Shiro’s skin.  Keith considers the tiny white device with an unreadable expression, then puts it down on the nightstand with a click.

“Try to get free,” Keith orders.

Shiro pulls until the carbon fiber cuffs bite into his flesh wrist and the metal one makes a grinding protest.  Keith watches, arms crossed, quietly judgmental.

“All out, Shiro,” he says, low and rough.

The command makes Shiro’s breath catch, and he feels heat go all the way to his dick.  That’s interesting new information that Shiro hadn’t factored in as a possibility for his sex life before.

He strains, twisting his hips and legs to get better leverage and driving thrust into the arm until it starts to heat up from overexertion.  After a ten count he drops back onto his ass on the bed.

“If I pull on these any harder I’m going to dislocate my shoulder.  Get over here,” Shiro says.

“Bossy,” Keith says.

“I’m the leader,” Shiro grumbles.

“I fly the Black Lion,” Keith reminds him.  “Also, you’re stuck.”

Ruefully, Shiro tugs a little on the cuffs.  He eyes the release button and it’s too far away for him to get it even with his feet.  Keith takes pity on him and kneels over him on the bed, kissing him warm and wet.

“You didn’t think to take your shirt off first?” Keith ribs, pushing it up his chest.  “I can’t get this off all the way.”

“I forgot,” Shiro says honestly, shivering as Keith shoves his shirt up to his armpits and flattens his palms across Shiro’s chest, spreading his fingers like he wants to cover as much of it as possible all at once.

Keith leans in to kiss his way into Shiro’s mouth again, and it’s strange to do this without his hands on Keith.  He wants to sneak his way under the waistband of Keith’s pants or slide his fingertips up Keith’s back, feeling the contrast between smooth skin and knotted scars.

Instead, Shiro arches his back into Keith, and tries to get a thigh between Keith’s knees.  Keith lets him, grinding down, and they’re both hard already.  Shiro feels a flush of pride.  Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea.

He realizes how tense Keith had been before, now that he has this to compare it to.  Keith makes more noise like this, on top of him, tiny gasps and pleased hums.  Shiro lets himself fall open.  Keith bites a hickey onto the skin between his collarbones, Shiro’s shirt rucked up around Keith’s nose.

Shiro is panting by the time Keith rolls back onto his heels and strips off his own shirt, then wiggles out of his pants and underwear one leg at a time.  The bed bounces, and Keith wrinkles his nose at his own lack of grace.  That’s what he gets for wearing skinny jeans.  Shiro lifts his hips obligingly so Keith can yank his pants off as well, since he can’t do it himself.

Keith naked is a vision, all narrow hips and hard planes of muscle.  It’s a dancer’s body, built in service of endurance and grace.  He’s also flushed soft pink from neck to navel, gazing at Shiro with eyes darkened from want.

Shiro stretches slowly, showing off a little, and Keith makes an appreciative sound.  Then he sinks down slowly to kiss along the  crease of where Shiro’s thigh meets his hip.

His hair brushes Shiro’s cock and Shiro loses his breath.  “Oh, please, Keith, _please_ ,” he gasps.

Keith looks up at him and grins, and Shiro loves him but he is _maddening._

When Keith finally takes him in his mouth, Shiro’s hips stutter against his will.  It earns him two hands pushing him down into the mattress with an iron grip.  Shiro’s head knocks against the wall behind him and he shuts his eyes as Keith picks up his pace.

Shiro opens his eyes again because Keith takes one hand off of his hips to touch himself.  The sight makes him buck up, hard, into Keith’s mouth.  Keith pulls away to cough, then glares.

“Sorry,” Shiro says.

Keith huffs and crawls back up level with Shiro’s face, straddling Shiro’s hips and slotting them together until he can take both of them in hand.  With his other hand, Keith pushes Shiro’s sweaty bangs up off his forehead, then brings them down and taps two fingers against Shiro’s lips.

Obedient, Shiro opens his mouth and lets Keith slide his fingers across his tongue.  Shiro catches Keith’s eyes and sucks, hard, tipping his head forward to take Keith’s fingers down to the knuckles.

Keith makes an undignified noise, so Shiro does it again.

“Next time, I’m going to, um,” Keith says, then stops, embarrassed, burying his face in Shiro’s neck, a blush crawling all the way across his shoulders as his fingers slip out of Shiro’s mouth.

“Do what?” Shiro groans in his ear, hopelessly, helplessly turned on even through Keith’s awkwardness.

“I’ll put my fingers in your ass instead of your mouth,” Keith says haltingly, getting more confident as he feels Shiro grind up against him at the thought.  “And there won’t be anything you can do to stop me opening you up however I want.”

“Oh, fuck,” Shiro says, shaking against the cuffs.

“You like it,” Keith says wonderingly, stroking him.

“Yeah, yeah, _ah_ , yeah,” Shiro says.  “Don’t stop.”

Keith doesn’t stop, pulling a stream of praise out of Shiro’s mouth.  “Keith, baby, you’re so good, anything you want, anything, I’ll give it to you.”

In response, Keith whispers softly into his neck, “I’ve got you, you’re safe, I’m here, stay, Shiro, stay with me.”

Shiro tips over the crest of desire like a shuttle dropping into free-fall, coming with Keith’s hand on him, loud and messy.  He thumps back against the wall, muscles liquid and chest heaving.

Keith braces over him and works himself with quick strokes to his own orgasm, forehead pressed against Shiro’s and eyes shut tight.

Then he flops face-down on the bed, one arm thrown over Shiro’s stomach, with a shaky groan.

Shiro agrees.  He lets Keith breathe for a few minutes, until he’s forced to address a pressing issue.  Now that he’s satisfied and post-coital, the restraints are getting increasingly uncomfortable.

“Keith.”

“Mmmmmmmph?” Keith says, not moving.

“Keith I’m getting a cramp.”

Keith makes an aggrieved noise, then rolls over and grabs the remote off the nightstand.

Shiro sighs with relief as the magnets release him, bringing his arms around gingerly and rubbing at his wrists and shoulders.  Keith smiles an apology in his direction and rises to pad over to the bathroom.

Keith comes back back with towel and a glass of water.  Shiro sets the water down on the nightstand and uses the towel to deal with his sticky chest and stomach.

Once they’re cleaned up, Keith tugs Shiro down into bed next to him.  “Want me to work on this for you?” he asks, sliding a hand across Shiro’s shoulder and digging his thumb into a sore spot.

“God, yes,” Shiro says, melting back into him.  Keith’s hands feel amazing, strong and warm.

When Shiro is relaxed and half-asleep, Keith speaks again.  “Someday we’ll probably be able to have normal sex, but until then —“ he leaves the sentence open, half a question.

“We should keep doing this,” Shiro says emphatically.  He’ll do this forever if they has to, in as many iterations as Keith wants.

***

Atlas and Voltron launch into freedom, off to patrol the far solar system as defenders of Earth.  They’ve barely cleared the Kepler belt before they run into Galra pirates.

It’s a short skirmish, notable for its proximity Earth rather than the number of pirates.  It gets a little hairy when the pirates unleash their baby attack weblum, but Coran has some helpful tips and they eventually get it trapped inside a force-shield to deal with later.

After that, it’s mostly mopping up and capturing pirates who bailed out of the main ship to try to hide among the asteroids.  Keith orders Voltron to split up, and the Lions dart around, scooping up errant pirates in their mouths like naughty kittens.

Shiro lets the Atlas hang back, watching the perimeter, until a hull proximity alarm goes off and Veronica announces that they have a boarding party setting off thermite reactions on their left flank.  The pirates have almost breached the hull by the time Keith swings by to swat them away into open space.

“Hey, Atlas, don’t get _sloppy_ ,” Keith shouts over the public comms, then switches over to a private channel to laugh as Shiro sputters and tries to defend his honor.

After the lions have docked, Keith finds Shiro on the observation deck.  The windows are oriented towards Earth at this point in their orbit, and Shiro’s been staring at it since he took off his sweaty battle-uniform.

Keith hasn’t changed, just pulled most of the plates off his paladin armor, leaving the boots on.  He trots up to kiss Shiro, who stands with his hands behind his back at parade rest until Keith is done.

“Don’t sulk,” Keith says, and Shiro relents, tipping Keith’s chin up with one hand and capturing his mouth with his own.

“What were you thinking about?” Keith asks, jerking his head toward the window.

Shiro looks back at Earth.  “I was thinking that it looks just the same as it did during the Kerberos mission.  From this far away nobody would know what we’ve lost.”

Keith flinches when Shiro mentions Kerberos, reliving in a moment all that old grief.  Instead of apologizing for bringing it up, Shiro puts a hand on the small of Keith’s back and says softly, “I’m here.”

There’s one more thing Shiro hasn’t been brave enough to bring up.  Here under the soft black void of the observation deck, Shiro thinks maybe he can do it.

The scar on Keith’s face hasn’t faded much since it first healed.  Allura said something about the effect of the quintessence field during their fight with Lotor, and gave Keith a softening salve that he didn’t use.

Shiro brings his hand up to Keith’s face, slowly, telegraphing his movements so Keith can duck away if he doesn’t want the touch.  Keith stays still, not quite meeting Shiro’s eyes.  The skin is unnaturally smooth, like all the texture was burned out of it.  It’s the first time he’s touched the scar on purpose.  It feels like the scar across the bridge of Shiro’s nose, half-familiar.

“Why’d you say it?” Shiro asks.  He remembers how the purple glow of the arm had reflected in Keith’s eyes.  He wonders what his own eyes had looked like, what light had burned there without Shiro behind them.

“I love you?” Keith asks.  His gaze is still dancing away from Shiro’s.

Shiro nods.  “Was it a trick?  Something to shock me out of it?”

Keith shakes his head against Shiro’s hand, letting his hair fall into his face.  It shadows his eyes, almost hiding the glint of tears.

“It was the last thing in my head.  There wasn’t anything left but that.”

Shiro feels himself start to cry, which wasn’t the plan but seems fair — if he’s going to make Keith cry, the least he can do is join in.  “I hoped it was true, you know,” he says.

Keith finally looks at him properly, eyes wide.  Shiro swallows.  “I hoped because I’m — me too — I am also.  I love you.”

Keith raises his eyebrows, because that was _not smooth_ , Shiro is not batting a thousand today.

“I love you, baby,” Shiro says, trying again, letting Keith wipe tears off his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, doing his best not to sniffle.

“I didn’t even have make a witch-induced murder-attempt to get that out of you,” Keith says, tipping his forehead into Shiro’s chest.  “Nice.”

“Nihilism and bad jokes are _my_ coping strategies.”

“I’m expanding my horizons,” Keith says into Shiro’s shirt.  “Keep up, old man.”

“I’m doing my best,” Shiro says, pressing his lips into Keith’s hair.  “For you, it’ll always be my best.”


End file.
